


Come Undone

by Annorahrose



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: F/M, Sherlolly - Freeform, mystrade
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-31
Updated: 2020-09-10
Packaged: 2021-03-01 05:30:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,572
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23409736
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Annorahrose/pseuds/Annorahrose
Summary: Struggling with the fallout from Eurus’ terrifying labyrinth, John, Greg, Sherlock, Molly, Mrs. Hudson, and Mycroft explore their own thoughts, and reflect upon the people they need most when everything is falling apart.Third runner up in the 2019-2020 K/T Multi Chapter SAMFA’s. Freak out, no, I didn’t freak out, why would you ask that (I totally freaked out, folks)? 😉
Relationships: Mary Morstan/John Watson, Mycroft Holmes/Greg Lestrade, Sherlock - Relationship, Sherlock Holmes & Molly Hooper, Sherlock Holmes & Mrs. Hudson, Sherlock Holmes/Molly Hooper
Comments: 67
Kudos: 256





	1. Greg and John

**Author's Note:**

  * For [lilsherlockian1975](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lilsherlockian1975/gifts), [MrsMCrieff](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MrsMCrieff/gifts).



> Hello all! This one has not been beta’d or Brit picked, and I will undoubtedly be updating it as I discover errors and such. I was in a hurry to post for lilsherlockian1975, who is having a very, very challenging time right now. Constructive criticism is, of course, always welcome!
> 
> Update************
> 
> It was supposed to be a one shot, then I got an idea for a second part. Now I’m posting chapter three, with chapter four in the works. So who knows where I’ll end up!
> 
> It started out as a gift to the always amazing lilsherlockian1975 (and remains so), but I couldn’t resist gifting it to MrsM as well She’s been so kind and encouraging to me. I’d never have had the confidence to keep this up if not for her. I’ll stop before I start gushing... you are a rare jewel, MrsM! ❤️
> 
> Note the rating downgrade - teenagers can handle some saucy language...
> 
> Just to note, I own nothing.

Greg

“Oi! Sherlock! Don’t leave just yet. We need to get you over to the Yard for a statement.”

“I don’t have time for statements, Graham.”

So getting his name right had been a one time thing. Typical. 

“Look, Sherlock, I know you’re not one for dotting the i’s and crossing the t’s, but we’ve got five dead bodies at Sherrinford, plus a child’s skeleton here. I need a full statement, you know that.”

Sherlock gave a frustrated groan. His movements, which had been resigned and calm just a few minutes ago, were starting to get more agitated. 

“Fine, let’s get your precious statement.”

John, who has been standing virtually motionless, heaved a sigh and moved to follow Sherlock, hunching slightly as the blanket that had been keeping him warm started to instead leech heat from him. Greg rolled his eyes once both of their backs were turned. 

Sherlock Holmes was, indeed, a great man. And a good one. But it didn’t seem that he’d ever be any easier to deal with. 

————

John

John was exhausted. The statements were taking forever, and having to repeat them for different officers, then different department heads, didn’t do anything to ease his weariness or Sherlock’s increasing impatience. Not to mention wearing further on already raw nerves at being forced to recount, again and again, the nightmare after nightmare they had experienced on the island. John had wondered why they weren’t split up to give statements individually, as was Yard policy. But as he heaved another great sigh, he thought maybe he understood. Sherlock has already ripped into two sergeants and a clerk, the latter angrily storming out of the room when Sherlock deduced that he had a gambling addiction and was cheating on his wife. If left without John as a buffer, Sherlock was guaranteed to reduce half of the force to tears - or bloodshed. Either way, protocols weren’t as important as protecting Greg’s officers. 

Sherlocks voice was steady but impatient as he repeatedly went over each of the tasks they had been forced to endure. He left no detail out save for one critical omission. He never spoke of the destroyed coffin. He skipped over that completely, and no one asked about it. Additionally, his expression told John in no uncertain terms that he was not to bring it up either. 

Spending time at the Yard without an active case to solve was never Sherlock’s idea of a fun night out, but his impatience ran at a much higher level tonight. Before seeing him with that coffin John knew he wouldn’t have understood why Sherlock was so keen to go. 

Now he thought he knew exactly why. He saw Sherlock’s face when he registered the words on the coffins nameplate, and realized who it meant. He saw the tears activity falling when Sherlock placed the lid on the coffin. He heard the fury and pain as Sherlock pulverized it, screaming as if he had flames licking his own feet. If it hadn’t been for that, John would have assumed that the “I love you” had been meaningless - just a means to an end. 

He was starting to seriously doubt that now. Possibly the first was. But the second...

————

Greg

“Okay, Sherlock, that’s the sixth person that’s left this room demanding hazard pay after speaking to you, and that’s impressive even for you.”

“If your staff wasn’t comprised of complete idiots, I would have been able to leave an hour and a half ago.”

“Thanks, mate, it’s good to feel appreciated.”

“I don’t care if you feel appreciated, I care about when I can leave.” Sherlock’s voice was rising and beginning to crack. 

“Alright, Sherlock, keep your hair on, it’s just an...”

But Greg words were cut off when Sherlock’s fists slammed into the table, almost upsetting a styrofoam cup of really bad coffee. 

“Damnit, Greg, we weren’t the only ones who were tortured tonight!”

Well, damn. 

————

John 

John was running low on patience. He knew Greg was doing everything he could, but the nights cumulative events were threatening to break Sherlock (and John). He sighed, leaning forward and resting his elbows on his knees. He washed a hand over his exhausted face and turned to Greg. “You can keep him here if you want, but a few hours ago I watched him tear a full size coffin to pieces with his bare hands. Reduced it to splinters. So, unless you’d like a repeat demonstration on your interrogation room, I’d suggest you either let him go, or get her here. Right the hell now.”

Greg’s face was puzzled for only a moment before it morphed into understanding. Opening the door, John heard him call out. 

“Oi, Donovan! A word.” Then, after several heartbeats, “I need you to go round and collect Molly Hooper. Take your car, not a marked one. When you get her here, make sure you put her in a conference room, not in interrogation.”

“Molly Hooper? What’s she got to do with this?” came Sally’s irritated voice from just outside the door. 

“Later, Donovan, just get her here quickly. Make sure she knows no one’s hurt or in danger, but don’t tell her anything else. Got it?”

“Got it. Molly Hooper, for god-knows what reason.” At her petulant tone, Sherlocks eyes darkened, causing John to lean over and cut him off before he could react any further to Donovan’s annoyance. 

“They’ll get her here. You’ll see her soon. Just hang on, mate.”

Sherlock just huffed our a frustrated breath and closed his eyes as yet another sergeant came in the room. John sighed and closed his own eyes as well 

This was the longest night ever. 

————

Greg

It took her a bit longer than he expected, but Donovan finally caught Greg’s eye and gave him the high sign to let him know she was back. As she approached him, she shook her head. “She’s in conference room six, and you might want to station someone in there with her. Never seen her like this before. I thought she was going to shred the upholstery in my car when I told her I couldn’t give her any info.” 

Greg wasn’t surprised. It’s always the quiet ones.

He went straight to the room where Sherlock and John were sequestered. “Alright, she’s here. Mad as hell we won’t tell her anything, but I figured you’d rather that come from you or John.”

Sherlock stood up and moved towards the door. “As usual, Graham, you show more intelligence than most of your stooges. I need to speak with her. Now.”

“You will, in just a mo....”

“NOT IN JUST A MOMENT. RIGHT. FUCKING. NOW.”

Greg reaches a placating hand out to him. “You can’t right now, you’ve got to do one more briefing with the Chief Superintendent. Then she’s all yours. John can sit that one out, but...”

“Why on earth do I need to meet with him and not John?!?”

“Because it’s your brother and sister being carted into hospital, and because the last time John saw the chief it did not go at all well. Since one of you needs to speak with him, I think it’s much better that it be you. God, I can’t believe I just said that.”

————

John

As Greg was leading him to the conference room, John stopped him in mid stride. 

“Listen, Greg, I’d never ask for this normally, but I need to get the CCTV footage from Sherrinford. Only a small section, but I need it before I see Molly.”

Greg sighed and rubbed at his eyes. “The number of rules I break for the Great Sherlock Holmes...“ 

“This isn’t one you’d be doing for him, Greg, it’s for her. Molly has to see that footage, it’s the only way I can explain what happened. She needs to see what I saw, and she needs to see what he did to that coffin. She’s already been hurt so badly... I need to show her, Greg.”

Greg paused, scowling at the floor. “It might take a few minutes, but... wait, what’d he do to the coffin?” They stepped into Greg’s office and John stood looking over his shoulder, directing Greg and trying to spot the footage he needed. The relevant section took about twenty minutes to find. Greg soon had the cut saved to his desktop for easy access. 

It was the first time Greg had seen any of the CCTV feed, and as they watched the isolated footage together John felt Greg’s anger towards Eurus become more and more palpable. 

“I don’t care how brilliant she is, or if she’s a ‘valuable asset’. If there’s anything left of her when Sherlock gets done with her, I may have a go at her myself. Might as well kick a puppy. They don’t make ‘em any smarter, any sweeter, or more loyal than Molly Hooper. They just don’t.” 

John knew that the situation wasn’t that cut and dried. Eurus was frighteningly psychotic, but part of what made her so dangerous was the lack of love and support she’d had during her formative years. But yeah... he’d quite like to have a go at her himself, and not just because she locked him in a well and tried to drown him. 

Though he wasn’t crazy about that part either. 

————

Greg

Greg showed John into the conference room where Molly waited. She was beside herself. As soon as she saw them she sprang from her chair like it was on fire, shouting “What the bloody hell is going on here, John? Are you okay? Is Sherlock okay? They won’t tell me a fucking thing, just said to wait in here.” Molly whirled around to Greg, her voice rising until she was actually shouting “And you - the next time you send one of your minions to collect me, choose one with better social skills!” Greg took a step back, holding up his hands in a surrendering gesture. He reminded himself that Molly Hooper was not a person to piss off. They’d never find his body.

John put on his most comforting “doctor speaking with a patient’s family” expression, trying to help her to get ahold of herself. It can’t have been easy - Greg saw in his face that he was exhausted, drained, and at his wits end with the whole situation. He put his hands on each of her shoulders and looked her straight in the eyes. 

“Molly, I’m going to explain everything I can, but I need you to calm down first. I am fine, Sherlock is... well, he’s Sherlock - but he is in no way physically hurt.” Molly exhaled sharply, releasing a breath he didn’t know she had been holding. “There’s a lot to tell you, but most of it can wait for now. What you need to know first is that Sherlock and Mycroft have a younger sister...” 

Greg took this as his cue to leave John and Molly to it. He needed a cigarette anyway. 

————

John

John started at Baker Street with the explosion and summed it up as best he could. He told her about the grenade, the takeover at Sherrinford, the murders they had witnessed, the little girl on the plane... as his monologue went on and on, her face grew steadily more horror struck. Then they reached her call. 

At first Molly had been humiliated. Not only had she been crushed by that phone call, but now she found that she had an audience for it. John brought up the footage on Greg’s laptop, but after only a few seconds she was begging him to turn it off. He paused the video and moved his chair closer to hers, putting his arm around her, supporting her. “Molly, I know this is hard, but you need to see this. It will all make sense when you see it. I’m right here with you, Molly, I’m not going anywhere.” He waited until she gave a slight nod and resumed the footage. 

She watched with rapt attention as he, Sherlock, and Mycroft entered the room where the coffin stood. Tears fell freely as the footage went on. When she finally heard Eurus give the command for Sherlock to pull himself together, she turned to John and started to speak, but John forestalled her, pointing at the screen “Pay attention to this Molly. This is important.” They watched together as Sherlock lost all control. Molly gasped when his hand hit the coffin the first time, covering her mouth, eyes wide and terrified at the violence she was seeing. John stopped the playback as the footage followed the three of them to their next task. He turned to her, taking one of her hands firmly in his. 

“Molly, he was in tears. Literal tears. That scream when he laid into that coffin - it wasn’t just anger. It was rage and anguish. He sounded like he was being burned. Tonight he’s been desperate to be done here, in fact he’s being significantly more difficult than usual, all because he had to get to you. Now, I don’t presume to know all that goes on in that man’s head, but I do know what I saw.”

At this, Molly broke down into wracking sobs. She leaned against John as tears slipped down her nose and cheeks. He did the only thing he really could in the moment - he held her as she cried. 

They waited for several minutes for Greg to return - John was at the point of going out to look for him when the door opened and Greg poked his head in. 

“We’re all done with him, he’s just getting out of interrogation. He’ll be here soon.” Greg’s head disappeared from the doorframe for a moment, then reappeared. “Here he is. Oi! Sherlock! Over here!” Greg considered for a moment, then added “Not sure I’ve ever seen him run that fast before.” He quirked a small smile at Molly, but she was totally focused on the door. Outside the room John heard the unmistakable squeak of Sherlock’s dress shoes trying to find purchase on the linoleum floor as he overshot the room in his haste. Elbowing his way through the door, he went straight for Molly, who threw her arms around his neck. Sherlock wrapped his own arms around her, actually picking her up off the floor and burying his face in her shoulder as he said, over and over, “Molly... I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, I’m sorry...” 

Suddenly, Molly pulled her head back and, through sniffles and stray tears, commanded “Let me see your hands.” Sherlock looked a bit surprised at this, but set her back on her feet and held his hands out for her to see. She fought a fresh wave of sobs as she looked at the abrasions, the swelling, and the bruises on his fingers. 

“Why aren’t your hands bandaged? You should have had them cleaned and dressed hours ago. Greg, I need a first aid kit.” Sherlock drew a breath and smiled briefly and moved his arms around her again. 

Greg returned with the first aid kit, and Molly gently pushed Sherlock into one of the chairs while muttering dark implications about the fact that no one had taken proper care of the wounds. John suppressed a smile, but caught Greg’s eye. By mutual unspoken agreement they left the room, Greg turning to John and saying, under his breath, “Was wonderin’ if he was ever gonna get his head out of his arse.” John smirked and nodded as he quietly closed the door.

Neither Sherlock or Molly noticed.


	2. Molly and Sherlock

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Couldn’t resist making it a two-shot. Hats off to MrsMCrieff, a source of endless encouragement, and someone who I am now lucky enough to call my friend. 😊
> 
> Also, just to note again, I cannot seem to leave well enough alone, and have probably done upwards of 10 edits (some I think are pretty good sized, in editing terms, affecting content in addition to technical errors) in the last 18 hours. I beg your patience with me - I just so want to honor these characters the very best way I can. The good news is if you choose to re-read, you’ll get a little new content!
> 
> Shutting up now. Enjoy! 😊

———

Molly

“So much for ‘he is in no way physically hurt.’” 

Molly quickly assessed the wounds on his knuckles and the back of his hands and pulled antiseptic ointment and wipes, gauze, medical tape, and plasters from the first aid kit. She had treated and dressed hundreds of injuries for him in the past. It was not at all unusual for him to come straight to St. Bart’s after an altercation or apprehension without letting John (or anyone else) treat any cuts, abrasions, bruises, or the plethora of other minor to moderate wounds he had collected while chasing criminals through to streets of London. Or being chased by said criminals. Or large and aggressive dogs. Or, on one memorable night, a particularly irritated parakeet that had squawked “No one touches Daddy” angrily while attempting to peck his face and hands. 

Even when he didn’t volunteer the information that he had been hurt, she always knew. She had actually had to resort to withholding information about her initial assessments of a victim until he had allowed her to treat him in the past. John never failed to flash a self-satisfied smirk when this occurred - he found it endlessly amusing that she was the only one he would allow to be so high handed. Had any other member of the pathology staff (or John, for that matter) made such insistence’s, Sherlock would have deduced the offending “half-wit”, “idiot”, or “obnoxious flat mate” to the point that they abandoned any ethical oath they had ever uttered and simply did whatever was necessary to get him to shut up and leave. If he developed an infection, that was his problem (or A&E’s, depending on the severity). 

When it was Molly, however, she’d simply plant her feet, cross her arms, and lean a hip on the nearest countertop. She would fix him with a gaze - and a cocked eyebrow if he was being particularly difficult - and remain motionless until he huffed a frustrated breath (or curse) and allowed her to deal with whatever had made him bleed this time. She may have been in awe of him (and his excessively distracting physical appeal), but when it came to anything medical in nature she refused to let him intimidate her. Her lab, her rules.

John didn’t even try to hide his giggles anymore. 

———

Sherlock

Sherlock’s thoughts were going in several very strange directions. 

Sherrinford seemed to have left his mind stripped and laid bare. His expertly organized mind palace had several pulverized walls where Mycroft, John, Molly, and his parents rooms had been located. 

The massive pirate ship in the back garden where he and Redbeard had played was reduced to splinters, and he now saw clearly the hive-like tunnels hidden beneath the wreckage where he had kept his memories of Eurus ever since the night she was taken from Musgrave Hall. 

Victor. His best friend, murdered in cold blood by his baby sister. 

Sherlock murdered Charles Magnussun in cold blood. Was he that different from her? She was a child, acting to try to keep her brother close to her. He was a grown man, trying to protect his best friends, people who meant more to him than his own life. 

Mycroft. His adversary, his “arch enemy”... his brother, who proved again and again he would go to any length to protect Sherlock, body and soul. 

John. His best friend, the man who found him adrift, with no sense of connection with anyone and threw him a lifeline. Eurus had shown the only degree of compassion she was capable of by giving him the riddle he could use as the key to save his best friends. He wasn’t able to save Victor, but she did lead him to save John. She let him win. 

Mummy and Father. Hiding the unimaginable reality behind the tragedy of his treasured Redbeard, trying to help their son cope with a loss most adults would struggle with - even through their own pain at Eurus’ ‘death’. They balanced his trauma with their own over decades of time. 

Back and forth. Being overwhelmed. Being calmed. Sadness. Hope. Anger. Gratitude. Despair. Love. Impatience. Giddiness. 

Giddiness. 

Really? Giddiness?

Ah, that would be Molly. 

———

Sherlock

He looked at her as she drew his left hand a bit closer, inspecting a nasty gash that he suspected may require stitches. Her hands moved efficiently but gently. She was the only one who usually seemed to care if he had any discomfort. 

The little crease between her eyebrows was adorable. 

Wait, what?

Even through the highly unusual chaos of his mind at that moment, he was stricken by the nature of that thought. He didn’t use that word. 

Or “beguiling.”

Or “lovely.”

Or... oh, God help him, his mind had completely gotten away from him and he was losing any grasp he may have still had on his usual detached nature. 

Her hands were comforting. How had he never noticed that before? Even as he felt the sting of the antiseptic on a short but deep cut he felt a gentle pressure on either side that was somehow soothing. He was quickly realizing that not only did he appreciate her ministrations, but he didn’t care how it looked. If his face reflected affection, oh well. It was what he felt. And he was tired of his own obnoxious brain working on Mycroft’s behalf and bullying him into his standard mindset of cold logic and reason. 

Logic didn’t have a monopoly on reason anymore. And his internal eight-year-old sneered a self-satisfied ”So THERE!” at his mental version of Mycroft and stuck out his tongue. 

———

Sherlock

Perhaps he was getting a bit carried away. 

He closed his eyes and drew in a breath, hoping to regain some normalcy in his thoughts. 

While Molly finished up with his hands and cleaned up the detritus, Sherlock glanced idly at Greg’s laptop and saw the paused screen shot of Sherlock and John leaving the room that contained the coffin. “Molly, what were you watching?”

Molly’s eyes were cast downward, and she cleared her throat before she spoke. “John showed it to me. It’s the footage of the phone call.” Molly’s voice was low and nervous. “He wanted me to know exactly what happened. I think he wanted to make sure I wasn’t going to hold you responsible.” Her voice faltered for a moment, then “I did, until I saw that. I’m sorry, Sherlock. I know you better than that.”

Sherlock huffed a frustrated breath and reached out to cover her hand with both of his. “If it helps, I hold me responsible too, and I was there.” Molly chuckled thickly. 

“I was quite embarrassed, though, that John and Mycroft heard it. I don’t understand, why would she do that? She doesn’t know me, how... why, Sherlock?”

He drew his hands back and seemed to become momentarily fascinated by a cuticle. “My sister is... it’s difficult to explain. She is exceptionally intelligent.”

“Well really, coming from your family she’d have to be, wouldn’t she?”

“No, Molly, she’s not intelligent like Mycroft or I. She’s got... special talents. I’m not sure her IQ could be properly measured by any means known to us. She far exceeds both of us.”

“Exceeds? Sherlock, you and Mycroft must be in the top ten most intelligent minds in the world, how can she exceed you?”

Sherlock chuckled darkly. “You overestimate me, as always. It’s entirely possible that she is the most intelligent person alive right now. Her mind has been compared favorably to Issac Newton’s. And, as I said... special abilities. I can explain more in depth later, but...”

Sherlock had focused in on the CCTV feed, and noticed it was at an angle that did not show the screens showing Eurus or the cameras in Molly’s flat. There was a very pregnant pause.

Oh, fuck. Did she even know?

“Did John tell you about what we saw during that call, Molly?”

“What do you mean what you saw?”

“What she had us looking at. The video screens?”

“No, he... Sherlock, what are you talking about?”

He took in a deep breath and braced himself. This was not going to go well.

“She put cameras in your flat, Molly.”

She turned a sickening shade of grey. “She what?”

Sherlock hurried to try and assuage her panic. “Mycroft will arrange for your entire flat to be swept, but until that happens I don’t want you going back there by yourself. I will accompany you to pick up the personal items you need for a day or two, and then you’ll come with me to John’s. We can stay there until your flat and the outer building have been checked, but I don’t know exactly how long it will be with Mycroft in hospital... the damage she did to him was... well, they’re keeping him under observation for a day or two, if they can manage to convince him to cooperate.”

Molly’s mouth was open in an expression of horror, and she drew both hands to cover her mouth. Sherlock reached over and pulled one away, holding it with both hands in front of his chest. “Molly, I need you to listen to me. I need you to understand that she will never hurt you. She will never come anywhere near you again. She chose you because you are a link to me. You’re...” He paused, looking at her hand cupped in his. “You’re a kind of Achilles heel for me. I could never stand by and watch something happen to you, and she knows that. Drawing you in, to her, was a way to control me. As children, it seems that she and I were quite close. I was, as she put it, her “favorite “. The boy she murdered, Victor, was my best friend, and my only playmate apart from her. We loved to play pirates, constantly running around with our makeshift swords and hats. But we didn’t want to include my baby sister. He was a threat to her - she saw him as someone who would take her brother away from her.”

“Sherlock, what does that have to do with me!?! I’m no threat to her! How did she even find out I exist?”

“She inserted herself into my life, and Johns life. She posed as Culverton Smiths daughter and... well, let’s just say she made a significant impression. The day you came to pick me up in that ambulance, she was posing as John’s therapist. She had eyes on us for weeks, if not months, gathering information on how she could manipulate us into a proverbial corner. She might have known that I loved you for months; that you would be the most significant impediment to getting her brother back. Eurus is exceptional in regard to intelligence, it’s true, but she has very little capacity for emotion. She was taken from our family at the age of four years, and that’s when she appears to have stopped developing emotionally. This has all been little more than a game to her. A squabble over broken toys.”

Sherlock rambled on, seeking the right words to calm Molly’s mind, but there was nothing for it. He could feel her veering down a path he would not be able to guide her from much longer, and redoubled the firm, determined tone he used as he looked straight into her eyes and said “Never again, Molly. Do you understand me? I will never allow this again. I will do whatever it takes to keep you safe.” 

“Molly, she’s dangerous in a way that defies explanation but, as ridiculous as it sounds, it’s not entirely her fault. She didn’t set out to become this - she literally didn’t know any better. The combination of her organic psychosis, her seemingly limitless intelligence, and the, albeit completely necessary, lack of models for how to process emotions since leaving our family allowed her to learn to disregard them entirely. She achieved the state of mind Mycroft and I have always aspired to - that without emotions, without caring. Thank God we never did. Anyway, after tonight’s events she seems to have reverted into herself. She’s on her way back to Sherrinford now, and she’s completely catatonic. Mycroft and I will be working together on the details of her increased security. I’m not sure what role, if any, our parents will play, but I’m hoping that having family, albeit a slightly dysfunctional one, may help her. She’s never leaving Sherrinford - she’s simply too dangerous. But that doesn’t mean we can’t try to... I’m not trying to make excuses for her, Molly, there could never be an excuse for all that she’s done. But she remains my sister...” 

Molly kept her eyes trained on the floor. Sherlock stopped speaking and simply watched her, ready to guide her into a seat, catch her if she fainted (and she really was quite pale), or stop her if she tried to leave without him. Regardless of anything else, he would not be letting her out of either his or John’s sight anytime soon. 

Suddenly, Molly shook herself, almost like she’d received a powerful electric shock. “Wait... did you just say... she knew.... you love me? Did you just...”

“Tell you I love you? Yes.” Sherlock looked at her with an almost puzzled expression for what felt like much longer than it really was. He moved closer to her, tracing along her jawline with one finger, then cradling her cheek. He pulled her into a sweet, almost shy kiss. As the seconds went by, he gripped her hips and held her closer. As a bit of the shock seemed to shake loose from her, Molly cupped his cheek, running her thumb along his cheekbone. 

“I’ve wanted to do that for ages.” she said, continuing to run her thumb back and forth. 

“Well, you officially have leave to do it any time you’d like. Though I might be able to show you one or two more interesting places to occupy your hands.” 

She snorted thickly, which sounded so ridiculous it made her laugh harder. Sherlock chuckled and gallantly presented her with a handkerchief before pulling her to him again, sighing into her hair “I won’t let anything happen to you, Molly. I love you, my Molly. My Molly. My Molly”

“So you’re saying I’m your Molly, then?” She giggled, then “I know, mustn’t make jokes.” She paused, sobering slightly. “I’m glad you found out, you know. About her. Not the murderous evil part, of course. But the sister part. I’m proud of you, Sherlock. Most people would simply turn away.”

He was speechless at this. He just told her that he wanted to try to better the life of someone who had caused her so much pain, and **_she_** was proud of _**him**_? He pressed a kiss onto her temple and tried to regain his composure.

”You are... utterly astonishing.” 

Sherlock took Molly’s hand, hoping to lead her quietly away - but the moment the door was opened they were nearly deafened by cheers, applause, and one distinctive wolf-whistle that had a very Watson-sounding air to it. Sherlock rolled his eyes.

“The conference rooms might not have one way glass, but they still have CCTV. We had to make sure Molly wasn’t going to take a table leg to your head, mate.” Greg laughed as Anderson paid up on what looked like a fairly profitable bet. 

And damn it all, even after all that had happened, and all they knew was still ahead, if Sherlock Holmes didn’t walk out of NSY with a lady on his arm and a honest-to-god smile on his face. 

John never stopped giggling the whole way home. 


	3. John and Mrs. Hudson

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And so, the one shot that ended up being a two shot is now a four chapter work. I know, I was surprised too! Here’s hoping you enjoy ( and review, I REALLY love reviews), but please remember, I own nothing except responsibility for my own addiction to kudos. Next chapter is in the works, I’ll keep y’all posted! 😊

** John**

Sherlock and Molly kept their heads down as they navigated the crowd, most of whom were cheering or laughing good-naturedly (though Donovan looked like she might actually be ill), but John managed to catch both of their eyes briefly as he turned to follow them out. He smiled and giggled and smiled some more. He just couldn’t help it.

This had to be the most bizarre 24 hours of his life. And he invaded Afghanistan. “Let’s see...” he thought. 

His best friend has a sister. 

Not just any sister - a homicidal genius lunatic sister who murdered a small boy by locking him in a well, causing a very young Sherlock to be traumatized to the point that his mind erased her from it. Completely. And then he had changed the murdered boy into an Irish Setter. 

The same sister that was responsible for locking John in a well. The same well. 

And murdering five people like she was taking out the garbage. 

And putting Sherlock through his paces like he was a damn show dog. 

And using John and Mycroft as pawns to screw with Sherlock’s mind. 

And using Molly as a pawn to screw with Sherlock’s heart. 

If someone had told him a week ago that he would be thinking of Sherlock and Mycroft as the “normal” ones in a given group, he would have laughed himself silly.

If someone had told him a week ago that Sherlock and Molly would end up kissing in a conference room at NSY, he’d have had the other party tested for drug use or a head injury.

John wondered absently if she had taken lessons in some sort of evil genius graduate school program to achieve her level of efficiency. 

Bizarre, there was no other word for it. 

Sleep. He desperately needed sleep. And Rosie. Maybe even real food. He wasn’t even sure anymore.

Yes he was. The one thing he needed, truly, heart achingly needed in that moment was Mary. He wasn’t sure if he would ever find anyone else he loved as deeply as he loved her. She knew him - really knew him, better than anyone else (including Sherlock). Even finding out about the past she’d run away from, knowing she had lied, didn’t temper his feelings one bit in the end. He had been pissed, properly, completely good and pissed. But he knew why she’d done it, and it came from a place of love and protectiveness. She loved him so much that the thought of losing him terrified her enough to shoot Sherlock. 

Of course, Sherlock really didn’t seem to take it at all personally. He was really quite un-Sherlock about the whole matter. 

What he wouldn’t give to have her here right now. To wrap his arms around her and listen to the words of comfort that would spill from her lips until they lulled him to sleep. He always slept best when she whispered to him as he drifted off. 

_Don’t. She’s gone. Dragging her back now won’t help. Get the hell on with it._

Taking a page from Sherlock’s book, he decided that biological needs be damned, he needed his daughter. To hold her warm little body in his arms, tell her how much he loved her, that he wouldn’t ever let anyone hurt her, how she’ll always know what it feels like to be loved, how he misses her mummy so much it still feels like it might kill him, and then rock them both to sleep. 

Maybe eat an apple in there somewhere.

** Mrs. Hudson **

_Returning to my flat now with Sherlock and Molly. Can you please bring Rosie? You are, as always, a saint. - JW_

It was just after 6am when she got the message. Rosie would be up soon, and she had been hoping to bring her to John’s flat this morning - it would give her the chance to go back to Bakers Street and pack for a longer stay with her sister while repairs were done. She had very little damage in her flat, but she preferred to be out of the way while those few repairs were done. 

Poor John. She really felt for him. 

Having Sherlock Holmes as a tenant meant that, at the very least, life was never boring. After all, how many landlords had properties with bullet holes in their wallpaper? Body parts in the fridge? Drones flying advanced remote explosives in through the kitchen window? 

She was betting not many. 

She indulged him too much, she knew that. She should’ve been firmer with him from the beginning, but she could never bring herself to give him the dressing-down he needed. He always paid for the damages. And she couldn’t begrudge him the extra time shopping or his daily tea. 

He needed her. And she needed to be needed. Especially by Sherlock. He had saved her life, after all. 

She and Frank has started out with frenzied passion and ended with sheer horror. Wild nights of sex on the beach (both the drink and the act) became tense, terrifying nights of dodging his rivals guns and his fists when deals went bad.

The first broken leg was a testament to what happened when she let her guard down and her reflexes were too slow. The night after he dislocated her shoulder, she began “falling asleep” in her armchair in an effort to keep as little distance as possible between her and the front door. 

The night he shot her, shattering her hip, she called Sherlock Holmes. 

Frank had attempted to retain the services of the consulting detective to establish a reliable alibi disproving his involvement in the murder of a mid-level dealer, thinking that such an amateur position would be held by one not sharp enough to become a Scotland Yard detective, but perhaps might be enough to appease the investigation. 

He hadn’t counted on Sherlock actually being competent. He certainly hadn’t counted on his being... well... Sherlock. He had just begun to take cases, just barely an adult, but his skills were already exceptional. Out of sheer dumb luck the crucial piece of evidence needed to prove Frank was involved in the murder was mishandled by an inept sergeant and was thrown out in court. But Sherlock, who she met only once, deduced the violent reality of her situation. Before he revealed his findings to Frank, Sherlock had sought her out and given her his number.

“When you’re ready, call me. I’ll help you.” 

She didn’t really know why. He didn’t seem like someone who would bother to help a total stranger who hadn’t asked. All she had done was make him a cup of tea. Maybe her tea was just that good. 

They were in America when it happened. Frank had “business” to attend to in Florida, with the intent to travel to Brazil before returning to London. The deal had gone wrong - very wrong, and he came back with a faint smell of gunpowder and a lack of patience for questions. 

She called Sherlock from the hospital and told him she was ready. 

She had intended to leave once they returned to London, having no resources to draw upon in the States. She had been shocked when he caught the first plane out from London. She hadn’t even been released from hospital when he found her. Frank had sent one of his “associates” to watch over her and bring her back once she was released before moving on to Brazil. Sherlock had him removed (she never asked how - at that point the less she knew, the happier she was), arranged for safe transport for her to a charter plane, and she was returned to a London hospital and her sisters care within 24 hours.   
  
She never saw Frank again. He had been found in Brazil within hours of her return to London and extradited to the US. Florida had the death penalty, and Sherlock saw to it that her precious life would never be touched by that vile creature again. 

It would be another ten years before she would rent out 221b to Sherlock and John. In that time, he visited her more and more regularly. It didn’t take long for her to grow quite attached to him. She never had children of her own, and she’d never regretted that. Her life had been full of adventure and she wouldn’t trade a day of it for anything. Still, it felt good to have someone to be motherly towards; someone who treated her with the same sense of support and love (though she knew he’d never admit to it). And, as it turned out, he brought all her other surrogate children into her life as well. 

In the end, Sherlock, John, Molly, and Rosie were all the children she needed. 

** John  
** _  
Rosie will be awake soon, we’ll get going as soon as she is. Get some rest, all of you. I’ll stay and look after Rosie while you sleep and get some food in you. MH_ **  
**

The taxi was pulling up to his flat just as Mrs. Hudson’s reply came through. The smile that had been born on the developments between Sherlock and Molly and which had remained firmly in place for the entire ride, finally slid off his face and his thoughts drifted as he opened the door and led the way into the flat. 

Molly went straight to the kitchen, filled and turned on the kettle, and asked what everyone would like for breakfast before they all tried to get some sleep. Sherlock, of course, declined. Molly didn’t argue with him, but John noticed that she made a few extra pieces of toast along with the eggs and bacon she was preparing. He ate them absentmindedly.

Molly and Mrs. Hudson were always taking care of them. 

Mrs. Hudson was a literal lifesaver. Even with her busy social calendar, all he ever needed to do was ask and she’d be right there for him. Between her and Molly, he had help with Rosie whenever he needed it after Mary died. She never judged him, never questioned a thing. Just stepped in, did what he needed, and gave him a kiss on the cheek or the head when she left. She urged him not to be so hard on himself, and though his guilt continued, her assurances gave him a kind of security. 

Her nagging him to mend things with Sherlock did wear on him a bit, though. He knew, deep down, that it was never Sherlock’s fault, but his pain was so intense, so all consuming, he felt as if he’d gone blind with it. He shifted the blame onto someone else simply because he could not shoulder it alone. And he chose his surrogate well - Sherlock had been more than willing to accept the responsibility. After all, Mary had died protecting him. 

In addition, both John and Sherlock knew there was really nothing they wouldn’t do for each other. In many ways, they were brothers, even more so than Sherlock and Mycroft. John needed a punching bag. He needed one the way he needed air or water - he wouldn’t have survived without one. Sherlock may be a pompous, self-centered prat, but this wasn’t squabbling over a case or body parts in the fridge. Sherlock would be what John needed or he would die trying. Almost did, too. 

John looked across the table at Sherlock and Molly. They didn’t hang on each other, get moony-eyed, or feed each other. They simply smiled in a way that was... pure. Happy. Even through the exhaustion, the spark of joy was unmistakable. The smile he had worn all the way home returned. He hoped Sherlock knew how lucky he was. Finding love was one thing - finding it with Molly Hooper... he couldn’t imagine someone more perfect for Sherlock.

There was a sparkle in both of their eyes. He knew these two. He knew them, and knew what kind of people they were, and couldn’t believe Sherlock finally came to his damn senses. Perhaps Eurus had managed to (inadvertently) do one thing that was good in the end. 

“This,” he thought pensively “is going to be one hell of an interesting ride.” He was glad he had a good seat. 


	4. Greg and Mycroft

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alright ladies and gentlemen, we’ve finally come to the conclusion of this joyride. I think. Yeah. Probably.
> 
> I’m gonna be straight with you - I’m not sure it gets more OOC than this. But I figure the trauma inflected by Eurus could cause our boy Mycroft to have something of a nervous breakdown and he’d need some intense TLC. I know I would. 
> 
> As always, you can buy my eternal love and affection for the low-low price of a review. No, seriously, I’ll grovel to hear what y’all think.
> 
> Mad props to Secret Agent M for the amazing support she always always always gives me!

Mycroft

Mycroft blinked at the fluorescent lights, shading his eyes with one hand. His head pounded. The combination of adrenaline, stress, and whatever was on that dart resulted in a headache that felt like the worlds worst hangover. He groaned and tried to sit up, but a hand pushed him gently yet firmly back down.

“You stay right where you are so we can keep an eye on you. We’re testing out the darts you were all shot with, but we don’t know yet what they were coated with, and if it’s all the same to you I’d rather not have you collapse and bounce your head off my floor.”

His eyes were having difficulty adjusting to the light, and he wasn’t able to see much more than fuzzy blobs of darkness moving around him. He dismissed the woman’s voice and tried to sit up again. Again a hand pushed him gently down.

“Maybe we should be checking your hearing too. I said stay down.”

Mycroft found his voice. “Sherlock. Where’s Sherlock, is he alright? John Watson? Where are they?”

His brain felt like it was a fuzzy blob too. And that light was too bright, sending daggers of pain right through his eyes. He felt shaky and panicky, and it was getting worse by the second.

The voice was accompanied by another hand on his shoulder that was soothing rather than restraining. “You need to calm yourself. They’re at Musgrave Hall. Eurus has been collected and restrained - she’s on her way back here.”

“Eurus. Is she alright? What happened? Did she hurt them? I need to speak to Sherlock. My mobile... where is it?”

The voice placed one hand on his wrist and the other on his shoulder. There was little pressure, only a calming touch. “They’re both fine, I promise. Your pulse is a bit high, luv, so let’s get you calmed down. Can you take a deep breath for me?”

His panic mounted and his mouth went dry. He was starting to feel quite hysterical. “I need Sherlock. Where is he, where’s my brother? Where’s John Watson?” His voice was getting steadily more unstable and he didn’t seem to be processing anything he was hearing.

The voice was gentle, yet firm. “Mycroft, listen to me. They are safe. Neither of them is hurt. Your pulse is rising, and I’d wager your blood pressure is as well. Listen to me...”

“The governor, he has a family. Someone needs to find his children. They’re both dead, he and his wife. She murdered them. Someone get my phone, I need to call Sherlock. Molly Hooper - is she alright? Someone please make sure she’s safe, Sherlock will never forgive me.”

The voice adjusted its grip on him slightly and he felt the sting of a needle as it spoke again in the same soothing tone. “Don’t you worry, luv, I promise they’re in good hands. Sherlock and Dr. Watson are with Detective Inspector Lestrade. You’re going to be falling back asleep here any moment now, but we have you, we’ll take good care of you. You’ll see them soon, I expect. Rest your eyes Mycroft. It’s going to be alright.”

“He’s with Greg. Greg will take care of him. He’s safe with Greg. He’s safe. He’s safe.”

The voice sounded as it it was floating away. “He is, Mycroft. Rest your eyes. We have you.”

————-

Greg

As soon as Sherlock, Molly, and John had left NSY Greg was on his feet, half jogging to his office for his coat and setting off for St. Barts. At Sherlock’s request he had sent two officers to check Mycroft’s status and let him know if there were any issues beyond his bizarre reaction to whatever was on those darts. So far all had been silent, which offered Greg some comfort, but he knew he’d stay on high alert until he saw Mycroft himself. Greg knew little things like the state of Mycroft’s mental health would be deemed unimportant and any discomfort subsequently dismissed. Mycroft had more strength and fortitude than most people would have credited him for. But even he had his limits, a fact that he flatly refused to acknowledge. And from what Sherlock and John had reported the three of them had been put through hell.

Sherlock had no idea the extent to which Greg could sympathize with his desperation to see Molly, at least once he knew why Sherlock was being so much more combative and infuriating than usual. Finishing out the night at the station had grown more and more frustrating by the minute (though being an audience to Sherlock and Molly as they awkwardly navigated their way to their first kiss was an experience you couldn’t pay him to have missed). Sherlock was not the only one who was desperate to see someone he loved.

Greg was one of the very (very) small number of people who didn’t question Molly Hooper on how in the world she could fall for Sherlock Holmes, what with his being obnoxiously self important, arrogant, cold, and a giant prat. Sherlock took his lessons at his brothers knee, and both of them were virtually flawless when it came to presenting the world with a detached, emotionless mask. But that’s all it was. A mask.

Loving a Holmes brother was hard.

Greg had loved a lot of people but no former partner, male or female, had been as hard as loving a Holmes. He learned quickly that their constant need to prove to the world that they were superheroes was equal parts exhausting and infuriating. Those freakishly large brains of theirs also housed a whole colony of insecurities they felt the need to compensate for. Greg let Mycroft’s perpetually pompous attitude and refusal to admit he was human surface without restraint if another person was with them, but when it was just the two of them Greg wouldn’t hesitate to call him out on it. The British Government put far, far too much pressure on himself, and was his own worst bully. He was constantly on guard to ensure he was a model of decorum and impeccable behavior. When in company, he did not ever allow himself to show sentiment of any kind.

No one knew about them - they took great pains to be discreet, as relations between colleagues was highly discouraged. When their jobs intersected (which was frequently) they were Detective Inspector Lestrade and Mr. Holmes. Greg understood why Mycroft wanted to keep their relationship under wraps, but he looked forward to a time when his comfort level reached the point that no secrets were necessary. For now, though, behind closed doors was the only situation in which he would allow his defenses down to any degree. Greg learned quickly how little respect Mycroft had for his own needs or his value outside the realm of political power. Mycroft hid so much from the world, but as time went by Greg saw more and more chinks in his armor.

Mycroft had a wicked sense of humor. He had a knack for knowing what to say (and what not to say) to Greg when work became overwhelming. He gave the best foot and calf massages Greg had ever felt in him life. He liked to twine his legs with Greg’s when they slept. He was prone to mad fits of giggles when he became overtired. He said “I love you” for the first time when he thought Greg was asleep. He cried at sappy movies (Sherlock could *never* find out about that). He mumbled something about an east wind when he had nightmares. He could make a perfect s’more. He watched old episodes of The Golden Girls, and laughed at every joke. He loved stargazing. He gave exceptional hugs. He adored Sherlock, absolutely adored him (he hid that well). He had unending respect for his parents (their zeal for theatrical productions aside). His hand fit perfectly info Greg’s. He trusted Greg.

Greg was a safe space for Mycroft. There were no exceptions.

—————-

Greg

Greg spotted the officers he had dispatched in the canteen as he strode past. Redirecting his steps he made his way to them and told them to go home, that he would take it from here. They protested, casting worried looks at their DI, who radiated exhaustion. Greg stood his ground, insisting that he was fine. In the end he had to pull rank on them - and then thank them for looking out for him. Their department always had each other’s backs. They shrugged, gathered their coats and coffee, and after insisting Greg text them once he got home safely, took their leave.

When he finally stood at the door of Mycroft’s private room he stopped, taking several deep breaths, then knocked gently on the partially open door and entered the room. Neither of them had been sick or injured in the eight months they had been together, so this was very much uncharted territory. His nerves were already frayed from the mind boggling events of the past day, and he wasn’t sure he’d be able to maintain the facade of the detached DI once he was actually in Mycroft’s company. He wondered absently again how long they would have to keep the facade up. It was exhausting.

The room felt... wrong. Mycroft surrounded himself with fine linens and lush carpets, beautiful artwork and classical music. The juxtaposition grated on Greg’s nerves - the sight of Mycroft in the midst of the sterile bed and bland wall hangings creating nothing but cognitive dissonance.

The head of the bed had been set to an incline, so Greg could see Mycroft’s face over his legs. His expression was troubled, even in his sleep. Greg knew that expression, and he hated it. Mycroft’s demeanor was stiff and formal while in the company of anyone apart from Greg or Sherlock, pushing emotions firmly out of sight. Instead the stress, worry, and sadness came out while he slept. Greg had watched more times than he could count as Mycroft’s subconscious tried to balance and process anything suppressed by his conscience mind. He very much doubted a peaceful nights sleep was a luxury Mycroft was ever granted.

Hell, being Sherlock’s brother had to be more draining than all his other duties combined. Greg was fairly certain he would have had a nervous breakdown if he were in Mycroft’s shoes. It was hard enough working with him, he could only wonder what their family holidays were like.

Maybe someday he’d find out.

————-

Mycroft

Mycroft knew Greg was there even before he opened his eyes. A familiar warmth rested on one of his hands. He squeezed it gently as he focused on the person sitting in the chair pulled up to the bed.

“Well it’s about time. I was starting to think you’d sleep the whole day away.” Greg retuned the squeeze, keeping their fingers linked. “How’s your head?”

“It wants very much to be separated from my shoulders and thrown in the Thames.” He winced as he put his free hand to his forehead. “What time is it?”

Greg glanced at his mobile. “2:30. They had to knock you out pretty hard. What’s the last thing you remember?”

Mycroft groaned softly. “The last thing I remember is Sherlock counting down, threatening to shoot himself instead of me. Where is he, Greg, is he alright?” His tone stayed calm, but a touch of panic appeared in his eyes.

“Oi, calm down My, he’s most likely sprawled on John’s couch right now. You missed quite a show once Molly got to the Yard. First she scared the hell out of everyone - and by the way, don’t ever piss her off, she’s got a rib spreader and she’s not afraid to use it - then next thing you know she and Sherlock were kissing in one of our conference rooms. Sherlock’s never gonna hear the end of that.”

“He kissed her? Really? Finally.”

“I’ve got about thirty witnesses to back me up. Not that I’ll need them - from the way they were acting they didn’t seem keen to keep it a secret.” Only after Mycroft winced at the reference did Greg realize what he’d said. He squeezed Mycroft’s hand a bit tighter. “Sorry, luv, I didn’t mean it like that.”

“I know. I’m glad. For him, I mean. I don’t like to think of him alone.”

“If anyone can wrangle that brother of yours, it’s Molly.”

Mycroft sighed. “Indeed. And she adores him, though God knows why.” They both chuckled lightly before settling into silence.

“You scared us, My. You had some sort of reaction to whatever was on that dart, made you loopy as all hell.”

“Oh God, what did I do?”

“Let’s just say you’ll have a really hard time convincing anyone you’re not fond of your brother in future.”

“But he’s alright? And John?”

“Both fine, outside of Sherlock tearing his hands apart on that coffin. I’ll shoot him a text, let him know you’re awake. He checked in with me five times last night. He was really worried. Still is, come to that. Thinks you’ll stage a jailbreak and bust out of here before you’re ready. Bit concerned about that myself.”

Mycroft’s face slackened and he seemed to age ten years. “Don’t be. I’m so tired, Greg. So tired. But I would very much like to see Sherlock. Will you ask him?”

“I’ll ask him right now. Why don’t you hit the call button for the nurses, they’ll want to check you over now that you’re awake.”

“Wait Greg, not yet, please. I just want to sit with you a while. Just with you. Just a little while. Please?”

Greg leaned forward and drew their linked hands together, pressing his lips to the back of Mycroft’s hand, then standing up and slipping the other hand under Mycroft’s neck, pressing their foreheads together.

“Anything for you.”


End file.
